Engaged in Passion (A Bridal Favors Novella) Read online

  "No, no!" Francine cried. The last thing she wanted to do was have another gentleman—another person of whatever gender—between herself and Anthony. "Really, Mr. Pierce, that isn't necessary." She took a deep breath. "You are Mr. Anthony Pierce, aren't you?"

  "So you figured that out, eh?" he said flashing a rueful smile. "Everyone says I favor my father. Since my mother's the real beauty, I don't think they are complimenting me."

  He was plenty beautiful, and she flushed a mortified pink that she had thought such a thing of a man. Meanwhile, he kept talking, his manner friendly and sweet.

  "And you are the Richards' cook, Miss...?" His voice trailed away, obviously asking for her name.

  Francine blinked, startled that he didn't know who she was. Could it be possible? How could he be here and not know her name? But then, that was the problem, wasn't it? She was either notorious as the cit's daughter trying to marry up or invisible as the silent, fat girl in the chair. So now she was faced with a dilemma. Did she confess who she was or play as an anonymous woman for the first time in her life? Not the girl trying to lift her family out of bourgeois taint, but just a girl. Any girl. Perhaps an apprentice cook.

  "I'm not really their cook," she said. "I'm still learning." He leaned forward a bit, and she couldn't stop herself from matching his pose and stretching toward him. "I'm... just call me Fanny."

  His eyebrows shot up at the familiarity. Women, as a rule, did not introduce themselves by their Christian names. Certainly not at a party and not to an eligible bachelor. So again, she scrambled to cover.

  "I'd like to pretend I'm a mysterious lady," she said. "Just for tonight. You can find out my name easily enough, but for the moment, will you allow me to pretend?"

  He nodded, and she was pleased to see that his eyes seemed to sparkle with delight. "Very well, I shall call you Miss Fanny Mysterious."

  She giggled at the name and was thrilled when he pulled up a chair to sit beside her. "Thank you," she said behind her hand.

  "An easy enough game to play to pleasure a lovely lady."

  She looked down, unable to believe he meant those words. She was as far from a lovely lady as it was possible to get. Neither lovely nor titled, but oh, she did love pretending with him. Meanwhile, he kept talking.

  "I was devastated when I had to leave without sampling your tarts. They smelled quite mouthwatering."

  She shook her head. "That was before I burned them to a black darker than your boots." She shrugged, embarrassed by her actions. "I threw them all in the trash."

  "Pity. But I suppose things like that happen, though probably not often to you. You seemed quite at home in the kitchen."

  She smiled, her mind leaping to some very happy moments there. "I suppose it is my favorite place, though don't tell my parents that. They're already scandalized enough that I like to bake."

  He frowned. Of course he didn't understand. He didn't realize she was the daughter of a wealthy cit and not supposed to do servants' work. So she scrambled to give a plausible explanation.

  "My parents don't like that I work," she said. "They want me to marry and give them grandchildren."

  He smiled, and she lost herself for a moment in the novelty of having a man smile in such a way at her. "I suppose that is the way of parents. They believe they know best, when the reality is they are stuck in how it has always been." He sighed and she had the feeling he was struggling with this very problem himself.

  "Does your father want something very terrible?"

  He shook his head. "Only that I continue on as he has done. That I work for Mr. Richards in the same capacity as he has, beginning as a clerk or bookkeeper, and rising eventually to become the chief accountant." He flushed and looked slightly embarrassed. "That's a man who keeps track of the money. Like a clerk, but—"

  "I know what an accountant is," she interrupted. She remembered many meals when her father ranted about thieving clerks. She even remembered when Anthony's father had proven his worth and been promoted to function as her father's second-in-command. "You don't want your father's position?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "I do. It's an excellent job, and I need the pay. But I also have other ideas." He grimaced. "I'm cursed with an overabundance of business ideas, all of which require capital. So in addition to working for Mr. Richards, I am the bookkeeper for a number of other clients. That's how I came to be at this party tonight. I manage the accounts for our host and his father."

  "But aren't they carpenters?"

  He nodded. "Businesses aren't a simple matter of job and payment. If they wish to take on larger jobs, they must manage new employees or share pay with other carpenters. It can become very complicated, very fast. I help them manage that."

  "It sounds fascinating," she said. It also sounded like a problem. As chief accountant for her father, he wouldn't have time to work with other businesses.

  He chuckled. "I assure you, it's only interesting to men who wish to make money. And it certainly isn't an appropriate party topic."

  "Do you think it is only men who wish to be rich? I confess a vulgar interest in how any business uses a man such as you." It wasn't a lie. Her father railed nightly about how hard it was to keep track of who sold what and for how much. Employee theft was rampant, according to her father. So Francine was very interested in learning what Mr. Pierce did to prevent those crimes. But also, she was simply interested in hearing him talk. About anything.

  And so they did. She asked questions, and he answered. Soon they were having a lively discussion about what she suspected were extremely unusual ideas. He was an innovative thinker, she realized, and quite a brilliant one at that. He had wonderful ideas about how common businesses could be run better. Everything from her father's millinery to a new dress shop called A Lady's Favor. Sadly, that would not impress her father at all. As a rule, her father did not enjoy new ideas when it came to money. And he certainly wouldn't listen to anything from a simple bookkeeper. Indeed, she feared Mr. Pierce would be wasted working for her father. And to his credit, he seemed to know that as well.

  Meanwhile, he must have realized how inappropriate their discussion was. Men did not discuss such things with ladies. So after a time, he flushed and turned the discussion back to her.

  "Tell me how you began as a cook. Did your mother teach you?"

  "Definitely not," Francine said with a laugh. "My mother is a terrible cook. Indeed, I began learning in defense against her burned gruel."

  "Surely not."

  "Surely so." There had been lean times when she was a child. Her father had not always been the success he was now. And in those times, her mother had been a disaster in the kitchen. "Fortunately, we didn't starve. No, I learned from..." She couldn't say from their first cook. He would wonder how her family had the money to afford a cook. "From a neighbor. She made the most heavenly lemon tarts. I started stealing them as soon as I could walk. Then one day, I said I wanted to make them myself so I could have them every day of the week."

  "So she taught you?"

  Francine nodded, her heart warming with pride. "She did. And mine were nothing like hers. It took years of practice."

  He blinked, obviously startled. "Years? That cannot be."

  "Years," she responded emphatically. "First off, I was very young when I started. But also, it's not so simple a thing." She gestured over to the sideboard where Amelia had laid out a modest array of cakes and tarts. "Those there, for example, are heavy with too much flour. The ones before had fruit that was not yet ripe. The oven fire is an art in itself, and obviously I haven't quite mastered that."

  "Perhaps you have," he said, "but only when you are not interrupted by a gauche gentleman."

  She laughed, suddenly breathless. "You were not gauche! And I'm glad you interrupted me. I'm... I'm glad of it." He was preparing to leave her. She could tell. The conversation was winding down and he was about to make his bow and leave. That was the way of things when gentlemen came to talk to her. They did the polite thing, th
en bowed and went away. And now he was about—

  "Ah, they are removing the furniture," he said. "I believe we are about to have some dancing."

  Francine looked around with dismay, seeing that he was right. She loved dancing. She really did, but she had a tendency to sweat and no gentleman appreciated that. And frankly, she hated it.

  "Oh yes," she said, feeling misery well up inside her. "How nice."

  "Will you join me for the first dance? I don't know what it is, and I have to warn you that I'm a terrible dancer. In fact, you will probably have to teach me the steps. But I swear I can make an effort if you will."

  She flushed. Did she dare risk it? What if she tripped? What if she started to sweat so badly she smelled? What if—

  "I would love to!" she forced out, silently chiding herself for being ridiculous. Lots of girls danced and lots of girls sweated. And as for smelling, gentlemen reeked all the time. She was just being ridiculous, she told herself quite sternly.

  Meanwhile, she had to think of something charming to say, but nothing came to mind. Nothing polite that is. She had a million impertinent questions for him. Then before she could stop herself, one of them slipped out of her mouth.

  "Was your business with Mr. Richards awful?"

  His brown eyes narrowed in thought. "Awful? No. Why would you think that?"

  She swallowed, abruptly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, that was rude. It's just that, well, when you left the kitchen I got the impression that... Well, you frowned at your father and..."

  "You saw that I didn't want to go."

  She nodded. "I'm sorry. Obviously I was wrong."

  "Of course you weren't wrong. I hated leaving."

  She frowned, not understanding. "But—"

  "Because I wanted to stay and talk with you. Not because Mr. Richards was awful. The meeting with him went quite as typical for these things."

  She smiled, feeling a happy glow that he'd wanted to stay and talk with her. "So you were hired?"

  He nodded. "I am to start on Monday." He didn't sound happy about that, and she could guess the reason why.

  "Will you have to give up your other clients? Will you have time to work for the Wensleys and the dress shop?"

  "Not yet. I plan to handle the other businesses in the evenings. But Mr. Richards is an exacting employer, and I fear..." His voice trailed away, but the implication was clear. He was afraid that he would have to choose between what his father wanted—for him to continue and become chief accountant one day—or continue working with his smaller business clients as he clearly loved. "For right now I need the salary and the experience I shall receive working for Mr. Richards. I shall have to leave the future for later, after I have enough money and experience to strike out on my own."

  "So you intend to run your own business?"

  His expression grew wistful. "I should like that above all things, but it is not as easy as it sounds. I have plans, but no money. So for now, I will make my father happy and work at the millinery, saving every penny I earn."

  She nodded, understanding the dilemma all too well. After all, she had no interest in marrying any of the aristocrats she'd met over the years. But that was what her parents clearly wanted, so she kept trying. Meanwhile, she dared to touch Mr. Pierce's hand.

  "If you are honest, Mr. Richards will treat you very well. Many years ago, his partner stole everything, and he had to start over. It was winter and M—" She caught herself. She'd almost said Mama. "Mrs. Richards was pregnant."

  His eyes widened, and she could see him figure out the rest of the tale.

  "The babe was born in January and died soon after. He was too weak, the house too cold, and Mrs. Richards didn't have enough milk. He's never forgotten."

  "I don't imagine he would."

  The music was starting up. It was a lively country dance, one that would certainly make everyone sweat. Which, come to think of it, was perfectly acceptable since she would merely be one of many.

  "Do you still wish to dance?" Francine asked hopefully.

  "Most certainly," he said holding out his hand. She took it with a grin, her heart already beating rapidly with excitement. This was going to be the best night of her life!

  That was when disaster struck. She wished she had seen it coming. Wished she had lifted her head to see Mr. Thomas Polton turn around with an apology on his lips. But she had been so absorbed in Mr. Pierce's smile that she had not seen their mutual friend turn around. And she certainly hadn't been able to stop him from destroying everything.

  "My deepest apologies," Thomas said with a stiff bow. "I'm afraid I have been terribly neglectful. Miss Richards, please allow me to introduce you to Mr. Anthony Pierce. Anthony, this is Miss Francine Richards, the daughter of your new employer."

  Chapter 3

  Anthony was still gripping her hand when his world suddenly crashed about his ears. He was still smiling down at her, still acting as the charming suitor, but his friend's words seemed to pound in his head.

  "M-miss Richards?" he stammered. Miss Francine Richards, the one woman in the whole world he absolutely could not trifle with? The daughter of the wealthiest milliner in London—his new employer—and the girl destined to marry up in society? He quickly turned to Thomas. "I'm sorry. Could you excuse us for a moment?"

  His friend bowed—obviously startled—but did the right thing and excused himself. But then Anthony was left to stare at Francine.

  "I thought you were the cook," he said.

  He watched as horror filled her expression. A mortified blush stained her cheeks and she bit her lip, an apology in her eyes. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I just wanted to pretend for a moment."

  "Pretend?" he said, his mind reeling. "Pretend to be—"

  "Just a girl. Lady Mysterious..." She looked away, and he caught a flash of tears on her lashes. "I'm sorry."

  He swallowed and forcibly brought his thoughts into order. He was thought to be a logical man, a man of numbers and business sense. He needed to call on those skills now and approach the situation calmly.

  First, she had not lied to him. She had told him he could find out her name easily enough, but that she wanted to be Lady Mysterious. He could understand the impulse. Though he had no desire to be anyone else, he appreciated how a girl straining under the weight of all her parental expectations might need to pretend—for a little bit—to be just a girl.

  Second, it was his own fault for assuming she was a servant. She told him she was not the cook. If he had wished to know her true identity, he could have insisted. But he was just as happy to let her be an exciting unknown.

  Finally—and this was the most important—they had not done anything except flirt for a time. Indeed, his body still simmered with the desire to learn more about her, to spend more time exploring her highly intelligent mind. And yes, he had more carnal interests as well, even though he knew the woman was not for him. She was the daughter of his father's employer and not someone he should trifle with. But having met her, there was something about her that intrigued him.

  Coming to a swift decision, he gestured to the door. "It's rather hot in here. Would you like to take a walk about the garden? If we stay close, it should be proper enough."

  She looked back at him, surprise showing in her wide eyes. "You want to walk with me?"

  "I'd like nothing better," he answered truthfully. Then he offered her his arm. A moment later, they were stepping out the front door. There were no back gardens, not in this area of London. But there was a group of gentleman smoking out front to the left, and more than a few ladies walking with their husbands to the right. He chose the right, strolling slowly and amiably. As a breeze brushed across their faces, he heard her sigh in delight.

  "Are you one of those hardy souls who adore strolling through the countryside?" he asked.

  She laughed, the husky sound sending a bolt of awareness to his groin. "Goodness no. I was born in London and have rarely left it."

  "Rarely?"

  She shru
gged. "We go on holiday sometimes. Not often, but every once in a while mother insists. She has family in Lincolnshire and..."

  "You don't enjoy it?"

  "I don't enjoy climbing over rocks and boulders. I like sitting and talking. And reading." She sighed. "They don't like to read at all!"

  "How sad. I love to read. What is your favorite book?"

  "Oh well, I have to confess a love of Minerva novels, but I have also read all of Shakespeare and Euripides. Just yesterday, Papa showed me a political pamphlet that he hated, but I didn't think was so terribly bad. It was about the need for boroughs reform. And right now I am reading Mémoires de Monsieur d'Artagnan. It's not so easy because it's in French, but I like it." She kept talking as they strolled, and he was amazed at the breadth of her reading tastes.

  "You have a most unusual mind," he commented.

  Her step hitched. "I... uh..."

  She thought he was insulting her, so he rushed to explain. "I have never met a female who was so widely read on all manner of topics. Minerva novels, yes—"

  "Mama and I both adore them," she said, a blush staining her cheeks, "even if they are rather silly."

  He nodded. "My sister would agree completely. But you have read political treatises, poetry, even mathematical texts. I find myself quite in awe."

  Her laughter had a note of embarrassment in it. Obviously few people appreciated her intellect. "I have to do something while the tarts bake. There isn't always a handsome gentleman there to distract me."

  "Well, I'm gratified to hear that at least," he returned, his body tightening with the knowledge that she was flirting with him. Women had flirted with him before, of course, but no woman had made him want to flirt back. At least none in the last five years. And her eyes seemed to reflect the starlight as she looked at him. He was quite dazzled, and his steps slowed as he lost himself in the wonder of her gaze.